(partly inspired by this photo.)
you punk hippie, she thinks, why can’t i be you?
glaring down my already-worn converse; wishing he hadn’t signed them
because now each time i see that perfect handwriting, i’ll remember
that i’m supposed to forget. it’s always the same, she sings,
legs folded, bubblegum hands clasped.
she gazes out, out into a city that doesn’t know her,
a city she is a part of.
she wills herself to evolve wings and plunge into the
depths of hidden alley mazes
before swimming up to kiss the moon
with a tulip mouth.
(you’re beautiful, he said,
and she stuck her tongue out, not in defiance, but
because for once she doesn’t need to hear anyone say it
to believe it.)
with each book she opens,
another word is carved across her shoulders,
and the sweet, sharp pain is slowly driving away the numbness.
the world of paper is one of pungent words, of images permanently etched
in contrasting sepia tones and bright blues, and she is not
coming out until she finds what she is trying to become.
she falls asleep in libraries and loses herself among pages-
it’s a cage of dusty shelving and one she is
to be inside.
watching the teddy bear resting against a tear-streaked window,
crystal water rushes to meet her chest and smashes into a brilliant force field as each heartbeat pounds harder, harder harder…
(posted early since, due to easter craziness, i will probably not have time tomorrow.)